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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29057742">Just Our Hands Clasped So Tight</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cat1ing/pseuds/Cat1ing'>Cat1ing</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sherlock (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Anal Sex, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Smut, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, John Watson Loves Sherlock Holmes, Light Angst, M/M, Minor Violence, POV John Watson, Platonic Petting, Sherlock Holmes Loves John Watson, Smoking, mentions of harm to a child (non explicit)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 07:46:47</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>11,460</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29057742</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cat1ing/pseuds/Cat1ing</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>In which John Watson makes a brilliant discovery - namely, if you pet Sherlock's hair, he shuts up.</p>
<p>Now if he can only find a way to make him eat three square meals per day....</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Sherlock Holmes/John Watson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>53</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>317</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>no you don't understand if i had to take a bullet for these fics i would without hesitation</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Just Our Hands Clasped So Tight</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>John traces the sharp edge of one cheekbone with his fingertip. The pale skin is soft. His touch drifts, but when he reaches a violent dash of blood, his hand begins to tremble, and he returns to the cheekbone, unmarred and lovely.</p>
<p>Breathing in through his nose and out from his mouth (Ella would be so proud, he thinks a little hysterically), John ignores his aching back. John is kneeling, his spine curled into a perfect C, and Sherlock’s head rests on his thighs. John studies his friend’s face from upside down, searching for any sign that he’ll awake. Sherlock is still and wan beneath him, the only splashes of color on his face a darkening bruise on his right temple and the tacky blood drying in his dark hair. </p>
<p>It’s another ten minutes before Sherlock begins to stir. </p>
<p>John swallows past the dryness in his throat. “Sherlock,” he whispers. </p>
<p>Sherlock sighs. His eyelids flutter and two pale slivers of grey study John fuzzily. Sherlock does not speak, and for a moment, John despairs when he sees no spark of awareness in the gaze. </p>
<p>The detective suddenly wrenches himself away and is noisily sick. John can do nothing but wince and rub Sherlock’s back, waiting for the storm to subside. When it seems that Sherlock has nothing left to expel from his stomach - not that he had much in there to begin with, John thinks unhappily - he gently pulls Sherlock away from the mess and settles his head back on his own thighs.</p>
<p>“Okay,” John says softly, sweeping his fingers across Sherlock’s forehead. “You’re okay.”</p>
<p>Sherlock takes a few shaky breaths and raises an unsteady hand to his mouth, wiping his lips. “I beg to differ,” he says. He is clearly trying for haughty, but the waver under his voice gives him away. </p>
<p>For a few minutes, they are both quiet as John studies Sherlock’s tightly closed eyes. </p>
<p>“Dizzy?” he asks. </p>
<p>“Obviously.” </p>
<p>John makes a noncommittal sound and waits, his usual course of action when Sherlock is being snippy.</p>
<p>The silence continues for a bit longer before Sherlock again tries to open his eyes. He immediately closes them again and his lips grow more pinched. </p>
<p>“You were hit on the head,” John murmurs, fingers ghosting along Sherlock’s hairline. “Antagonizing the big guy might not have been your brightest idea.” He wants to run his hands through those dark curls, reassure himself that the mighty brain, the organ that makes Sherlock who he is, is safe and intact, but he holds himself back. “You’ve been out for twenty minutes, give or take. Nearly scared me to death. I don’t see any sign of a skull fracture, but it took you a long time to wake up.  I-” he pauses here to steady his voice. “I was worried.”</p>
<p>One dark eyebrow arches, but with his eyes still tightly closed, Sherlock’s expression lacks its usual arrogance. “Where are we?” he asks.</p>
<p>“Basement of the building,” John says, now feeling on more comfortable ground. “No windows. One door, but it’s barred on the other side. Room’s empty - nothing we can use. I had a look around already. And they took our phones.”</p>
<p>Sherlock grunts and frowns. “Then unfortunately we shall have to await Lestrade and the cavalry.”</p>
<p>John snorts. “Yeah, and who told him where we were?” </p>
<p>“I did. I texted him before we entered the building.”</p>
<p>“You…” John cuts himself off with a laugh. “Of course. Well done, you.”</p>
<p>Sherlock smiles, a hint of teeth, then winces as his body tenses. His Adam’s apple bobs and John freezes, ready to help if the nausea overpowers him. Sherlock swallows and swallows and grows still again.</p>
<p>“I need to get up,” he says. He does not move.</p>
<p>John frowns. “Yeah, no. You need to stay still. Even if there’s no skull fracture, that was a hard hit and I’m sure you have nasty concussion.” </p>
<p>Sherlock hums and his shoulders hunch, as though he’s going to try and sit up. John catches his right shoulder and pushes down. “Uh uh,” he says softly. “Stay down.”</p>
<p>“John, you’re fussing.” Sherlock shifts, bending one knee and then the other. The heels of his shoes drag across the cement and he plants his feet. John keeps a heavy hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and thinks longingly of how still and pliant an unconscious Sherlock is. He winces a little at this uncharitable thought. </p>
<p>Sherlock’s hips buckle - he’s trying to get up again - but John holds him down easily. He wonders idly that if there were other consulting detectives in the world, would they be as stubborn as his?</p>
<p>Not mine, he reminds himself. He made that very clear the first night.</p>
<p>Sherlock relaxes his shoulder under John’s hand so that the pressure John’s exerting helps him turn on his side. John opens his mouth for a sharp retort, but it dies on his lips when a small whimper escapes from Sherlock. He collapses onto his back, droplets of sweat adorning his forehead.  He’s breathing heavily through his nose.</p>
<p>Sherlock Holmes should never make that sound, John thinks.  He finds himself running his fingers through Sherlock’s dark curls, and with both index fingers, he begins to rub circles over the parietal regions. “Come on, Sherlock,” he says, and a plaintive note enters his voice. “Will you stop fighting me?”</p>
<p>And to his great shock, Sherlock does. First his shoulders relax, and then his legs slide out and away, and finally the frown marks on his forehead disappear. Puzzled by this sudden acquiescence, John lets his fingers continue to move across Sherlock’s scalp - gently rubbing, occasionally scratching with his nails, and pressing his thumbs into Sherlock’s occiput.  The calluses on John’s fingers tug gently at the curls. He is careful to stay away from the nasty hematoma.</p>
<p>Sherlock lets out a gusty sigh and melts under John’s touch.</p>
<p>John feels overwhelmed by this intimacy. For as often as Sherlock invades John’s personal space - demanding that the doctor pluck his mobile phone from his own trouser pockets, or molding John’s body when he needs to visualize the placement of a corpse - he cannot think of a time when he’s touched Sherlock so freely. Sherlock’s unusual capitulation mystifies him. When has Sherlock ever actually listened to John before?</p>
<p>There is a heavy clunking noise from just outside the door, and John’s thoughts are scattered. His head jerks up and his fingers automatically still. But then Sherlock makes an unhappy sound, and without thinking about it, John continues to gently run his fingers through Sherlock’s hair.</p>
<p>The door swings open to reveal Lestrade, face harried and shirt coffee-stained. He sees John and Sherlock, and his face flits from concerned to bemused to annoyingly smug.</p>
<p>“Are we interrupting?” the DI asks. John sees a small crowd of Yarders in the hallway beyond Lestrade.</p>
<p>Sherlock sighs heavily through his nose.</p>
<p>“If you haven’t already, you need to call an ambulance,” John says. His relief at the rescue is overshadowed by his ongoing concern over Sherlock’s state. “Sherlock was hit on the head. He’s not able to stand and he needs to go to the A&amp;E for a head CT, at the very least.”</p>
<p>Unmoving on John’s lap, Sherlock groans. “John, really, you’re being unreasonable. I simply require some rest.” He raises his voice. “Lestrade, we shall be returning to 221B, of course, provided my instructions were not so complicated that your lot allowed the counterfeiters to escape.”</p>
<p>From the doorway, Lestrade glares at Sherlock’s supine form.</p>
<p>“Yeah, that’s not happening,” John says.  “I don’t know how you plan to get there seeing as you can’t even walk without becoming sick.” He’s prepared to argue further, but he finds that as long as he continues to gently massage Sherlock’s head, the other man remains quiet. He’s not sure where this obedience is coming from, but he doesn’t want to do anything that jeopardizes it.</p>
<p>John catches Lestrade’s eye. “Ambulance, Greg?” he asks.</p>
<p>Lestrade nods. “I’ll take care of it.” He disappears from the doorway. One of his team comes in to question them, but Sherlock remains quiet, so John provides short answers. The majority of his attention remains on his flatmate, although he keeps an eye on the door through which he hopes to see paramedics soon arrive.</p>
<p>It feels like forever, but it’s probably only been fifteen minutes when two men maneuver a stretcher into the dank little room. John feels like he can finally take a deep breath. “Over here,” he calls. “I have a 34 year old male status post contusion to the right temple. LOC was approximately twenty minutes. One episode of vomitus, and he’s suffering from vertigo.” </p>
<p>“Honestly, John,” Sherlock complains, verbal and complaining once more. The paramedics move efficiently around him and lift him onto a stretcher. “This is really quite unnecessary.” His face is ashen, and John can see he’s gritting his teeth.</p>
<p>“Let them do their job,” John says wearily, standing up and shaking out a foot that fell asleep. He feels oddly bereft now that Sherlock’s been taken from his arms. </p>
<p>Sherlock takes a deep breath and opens both of his eyes. The movement clearly makes him dizzy, and he lists to the side before one of the paramedics bodily rearranges him and buckles him onto the stretcher. </p>
<p>Under his breath, John curses the stubbornness of mad detectives.</p>
<p>“Come on, mate.” Lestrade has returned to the room, and he rests a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. “John says you need to go into the hospital. Gotta listen to your GP, am I right?”</p>
<p>Sherlock frowns at the hand on his shoulder, and then his gaze blearily tracks the hand to the arm and then up to Lestrade’s face, stopping his perusal so that he can peer drunkenly into Lestrade’s eyes. </p>
<p>Lestrade, taking Sherlock’s stillness for surrender, pats his shoulder once, twice. “There’s a good man,” he says.</p>
<p>John can see it before it happens. He only has time to open his mouth for a warning before Sherlock raises one arrogant eyebrow, cocks his head, and then leans forward to messily vomit on Lestrade’s shoes.</p>
<p>-</p>
<p>The hospital is an unmitigated disaster.  </p>
<p>There has been a multi-car pile up on the M25, so Sherlock is triaged as a lower priority. His patience, tenuous at even the best of times, has long since snapped, and he finds a reason to argue every medical invention. He declares the taking of vital signs unnecessary and bares his teeth when the nursing student tries to start an IV. He concludes that the hospital blankets are unsatisfactory and petulantly throws them to the floor before he demands to talk to the charge nurse about the harshness of the overhead lighting. He is cruel to the registrar who takes his history, and he snips at John, taking exception to his tone of voice, his recitation of the events that have led them to the A&amp;E, and even the squeaking sounds his shoes make on the lino.</p>
<p>John fights the urge to throttle Sherlock. He reminds himself that Sherlock is simply overwhelmed. Sherlock isn’t complaining about the hospital blankets because he’s a snob … well, John amends, it’s not <em> only </em>because Sherlock is a snob. Other people can dismiss the caress of harsh fabrics, but to Sherlock, it’s like dressing in sandpaper. UV lights aren’t simply a mild irritant, but a glaring, buzzing cacophony of discomfort. </p>
<p>John breathes deeply. He smiles and nods. He moves the blankets into a corner where no one can trip over them. He smiles reassuringly at the registrar and rolls his eyes at the charge nurse in what he hopes is a conciliatory fashion. He snags Sherlock’s raised hand, stopping him from throwing his water cup in a fit of pique when he’s told the wait for the CT scan will be another twenty minutes.</p>
<p>“Come on, Sherlock,” he begs. “They’re doing the best they can. They can’t control when multiple traumas come in.”</p>
<p>Sherlock growls and heaves himself to his side, facing away from John. The motion clearly makes him nauseous, and he spends the next several seconds panting. He gags once before he stills and lies his head down with stubborn gentleness. The tense lines of his back radiate abject misery. </p>
<p>John sighs and thinks back to Sherlock’s lovely deference in the basement. What can he do to recapture that? He thinks of how docile Sherlock became in his hands when his hair was being pet, and John’s breath hitches. Can it really be that simple?</p>
<p>Sherlock is on his side, quiet but almost vibrating with unchecked fury. It’s clear he wants to rage, but he’s feeling too sickly to vent the anger properly, and this only fuels it. He looks like he’s ready to explode.</p>
<p>Stepping up to Sherlock’s bedside, John hesitantly reaches out. Sherlock seems to sense this movement, and before John reaches him, he freezes, his shoulder drawing up towards his ears and his mouth twisting into an ugly moue.</p>
<p>John’s hand slips into Sherlock’s hair and, for a moment, both men freeze. And then as if a button has been pushed, the fight goes out of Sherlock, and he relaxes in his bed. Eyebrows raised in disbelief, John begins to gently run his fingers through Sherlock’s hair. Sherlock lets out a giant sigh and his body becomes loose and willing. The ferocious intensity evaporates, and Sherlock’s countenance grows peaceful. It’s not the peaceful mask he presents when he doesn’t want someone to see what he’s thinking, but true peacefulness. He’s become, John realizes with a shock, tranquil.  And all John had to do was pet his hair.</p>
<p>Oh, John thinks. Oh, but this could be a powerful weapon.</p>
<p>-</p>
<p>The CT scan is negative for acute intracranial processes. Sherlock is diagnosed with a concussion and released home to John’s care with a supply of sublingual antiemetics. </p>
<p>Sherlock declares the entire enterprise a waste of time and makes sure that John, the nurse who wheels him to the exit, the cabbie who drives them home, and Mrs. Hudson are all made aware of his opinion. Loudly. And with colorful vernacular.</p>
<p>-</p>
<p>For a short time, things are quiet.</p>
<p>To recover from his concussion, Sherlock is prescribed brain rest. His lingering headache blunts his manic energy, but it is hardly enough to keep him sedentary. John splurges on expensive headphones and fills Sherlock’s phone with rare recordings of classical concertos from online music libraries.  He spends more money on digital music in those three days than he has in his entire life, but if it keeps Sherlock from harrying off to injury and second impact syndrome, John decides it’s worth it.</p>
<p>Sherlock’s headache fades by day four, just in time for a private client to bring them a case. It’s only a four or a five, but John suspects Sherlock is not quite feeling one hundred percent, and he takes the case with surprisingly little complaint. The client works at the Natural History Museum and the problem is a missing artifact, which Sherlock suspects never left the museum. John thinks Sherlock should still be resting at home, but he recognizes a pipe dream when he sees one, so he decides to be grateful that the case at least keeps them off the streets of London.</p>
<p>By the time this case is over, Lestrade has something new for them and Sherlock declares himself fully recovered. He celebrates his good health by chasing a criminal halfway across the Millennium Bridge and then over the railing and into the Thames, scaring what John suspects is a good fifteen years off his own life.</p>
<p>Blackmailer and detective are fished out by a passing tour boat, filled with thrilled tourists snapping photos. John is reunited with Sherlock on the banks of the river and he internally debates the medical appropriateness of punching Sherlock so soon after his head injury. Sherlock, looking not unlike a drowned terrier, grins madly as Lestrade reads him the riot act.</p>
<p>They head home, Sherlock dripping river water all over the back of the cab. He declares the case a success. He admits to John that he found being locked in a basement and rescued by the Met unsatisfying. He’s glad, he says, things are finally back to normal.</p>
<p>John stomps up the stairs to his bedroom and refuses to come down for supper.</p>
<p><br/>-<br/><br/></p>
<p>They barely touch for a month. </p>
<p>There are small contacts, meaningless and quick, the type that are expected to occur between flatmates. Exasperated by Sherlock’s lengthy toilette, John hipchecks him one morning so that he can have some time in front of the mirror. The following Sunday, Sherlock’s dressing gown brushes across John’s bare arm as the detective reaches for the butter, and goose pimples trail behind. Nine days later, Sherlock snags John’s phone from his back pocket so that he can check the weather in Brighton. When John takes exception and tries to grab it back, Sherlock holds the mobile high over his head. Cursing his own height, John jumps and jumps for it, and Sherlock jabs him with a bony elbow in response. </p>
<p>If John spends several nights alone in his bed trying to remember the softness of Sherlock’s curls around his fingers as he fights sleep … well, no one will know.</p>
<p>-</p>
<p>Anderson is being a cock. </p>
<p>Sherlock is not helping the situation. He’s become a whirling dervish at the crime scene, spitting out deductions about the murder victim and forensic team in equal measures. Lestrade’s left eyebrow has begun to twitch, and John is appreciating the beginnings of a headache.</p>
<p>But Anderson’s in a particularly catty mood and has been egging Sherlock on, snipping behind his back, sighing heavily when Lestrade defers to him, and intentionally stalling over the body just to make Sherlock wait.</p>
<p>By the time Sherlock is allowed to examine the corpse, his fingers have begun to twitch and John can tell he’s seconds from coming apart at the seams. </p>
<p>This will not bode well for the rest of the case nor the integrity of 221B’s walls.</p>
<p>Sherlock is crouched beside the corpse, and while his hands are flitting over the clothing, John can tell that his attention is shot. His lips are just a little too tightly pinched and the lines around his eyes too pronounced. John briefly daydreams popping Anderson in his self-satisfied face.</p>
<p>A litany of observations run from Sherlock’s mouth, half-formed thoughts cut off as he interrupts himself. The frenzied pace of his words is too fast for anyone to follow. Lestrade crosses his arms and frowns at Sherlock.</p>
<p>John decides it’s time to test his new super power.</p>
<p>He walks up behind Sherlock, making no effort to disguise his approach. Sherlock does not turn and look at him, but his voice grows lower and he talks even faster, working himself into a fit. John doesn’t think about the other members of the Yard around them, and he intentionally keeps his back to Anderson and ignores Lestrade’s attempts to catch his eye.</p>
<p>John slides his fingers into the dark strands curling on the nape of Sherlock’s neck, letting his nails gently drag against his scalp as he pushes his hand towards Sherlock’s crown. His palm comes to rest against the back of Sherlock’s skull, soaking up the warmth from his scalp, and he lightly scratches with all five fingers.</p>
<p>It’s like flipping a switch. Sherlock falls silent immediately and his shoulders droop. The fervor just below his skin evaporates like mist exposed to the sun. Peering down, John watches Sherlock’s eyes slide shut. His lips remain parted and he’s breathing gently through his nose. His chest rises and falls, but the rest of his body is still and peaceful. </p>
<p>“There’s a good lad,” John says softly, and Sherlock lets loose a gusty, contented sigh.</p>
<p>It works, John thinks giddily, and he can’t contain the grin that takes over his lips.  He glances up, wanting to share his spectacular discovery with someone - Sherlock’s not the only one who can propose a hypothesis and run an experiment after all. He locks eyes with Lestrade, who is staring at the both of them with his mouth gaping like a fish.  John becomes aware of the marked quiet from the Yarders around them. </p>
<p>John considers how to best explain his methods. He wants to point out the practical utilization of such a discovery, explain that it’s hardly something tawdry - rather it is something remarkable he’s discovered that can calm Sherlock’s raging mind and body. </p>
<p>He doesn’t get a chance.</p>
<p>“Oh!” Sherlock stands suddenly, and John’s hand falls away. Sherlock spins. His lips are parted in a wide expression of revelation and his eyes are bright when they meet John’s. “The dog walker!” he says, grabbing John’s shoulders in both large hands. His goofy smile, the one John has begun to think of as his own, is back.</p>
<p>John has no idea what he’s talking about - did anyone even mention a dog walker? - but he can’t stop himself from smiling back at Sherlock. Sherlock squeezes his shoulders once and whirls, stepping over the body and striding away, his dark coat flaring around his feet.</p>
<p>John hops to follow him, because that’s what he does. But he also allows his shoulder to bump against Anderson’s as he passes, in a move that’s just a little too rough to be unintentional because, apparently, that’s also what he does.</p>
<p><br/>-</p>
<p>John tries it again the next time Mycroft visits.</p>
<p>The conversation - if it can even be called that - between the Holmes brothers has been minimally verbal. Mycroft’s contributions are short sentences that could have three or four meanings, and he punctuates each one with a raised eyebrow.  Sherlock, for his part, is creating truly awful warbles from his violin that sound not unlike a dying cat.</p>
<p>John has been trying to ignore the both of them, but the words they aren’t saying become so stifling that John imagines he could choke on them. He’s at his desk, painstakingly editing his account of the museum case. He hopes to post it to the blog by tomorrow. </p>
<p>Sherlock begins to slowly draw his bow back and forth, forcing his violin to emit a ghostly, crying note that lingers on and on. It drills into John’s ear, and he begins to wince. </p>
<p>Something has to be done.</p>
<p>John briefly considers the wisdom of his next move, decides he doesn’t care, and reaches out to scratch Sherlock’s head. His thumb comes to rest just below the collar of Sherlock’s fine shirt, and he’s momentarily surprised by how warm and smooth Sherlock’s skin is. It’s not an entirely appropriate way to touch one’s flatmate, especially when said flatmate’s scary older brother is present, but the touch works its magic. Sherlock’s violin grows silent and the man melts into his chair, eyes closing.</p>
<p>Mycroft attempts a few more digs, but Sherlock no longer responds. The bureaucrat stares over his younger brother’s head, eyes intent on John’s hand and mouth shaped like he has swallowed something sour.  John then discovers that this method of quieting Sherlock has the added benefit of making Mycroft uncomfortable enough to make his excuses and leave, and soon the flat is peaceful.</p>
<p>Tickled, John continues to pet Sherlock’s hair and is surprised fifteen minutes later when Sherlock begins to snore softly, having fallen asleep in his chair, long limbs akimbo and chin resting against his chest.</p>
<p>John rescues the Strad before it slips from Sherlock’s hands. He then allows himself a few seconds - certainly no more than thirty - to watch Sherlock sleep. It’s a rare enough occurrence that he can hardly be blamed for pausing to enjoy it, he tells himself.</p>
<p><br/>-</p>
<p>John’s discovery has unintended consequences.</p>
<p>They don’t talk about John’s new tendency to touch, but Sherlock has clearly noticed it. John frequently senses that he’s been watched, but whenever he looks up, he finds Sherlock with his nose buried in a book or his gaze locked to his microscope’s eyepiece. In his peripheral vision, John can see Sherlock watching him, a pensive frown on his face.</p>
<p>Sherlock takes to sitting closer on the sofa when they settle down to watch telly and eat their take-out. He leans over John more as they move about the kitchen, letting their arms brush.  When John is responding to commenters on his blog one evening, Sherlock hovers over his shoulder to correct his grammar, and his breath is hot on John’s cheek. Even after Sherlock moves away, John can feel the ghost of his breath, and he rewrites the same sentence at least ten times before he gives up and goes to bed early.</p>
<p>As he lies in bed that night, John ponders why he’s so affected by Sherlock’s proximity. Maybe he’s just reacting to the closeness of another human body, not Sherlock himself. He’s not had a date for … six months, he realizes with a start. He spends a few minutes trying to feel sorry for himself, but it just doesn’t stick. He doesn't miss dating, he realizes. He misses <em> sex </em>, sure. He’s a normal, hot-blooded man. But the flirting, the tricky dance of the first date, trying to figure out if a cup of coffee is just a cup of coffee or an offer for something more - John feels exhausted just thinking about it. </p>
<p>It’s not like those dates went anywhere serious, he thinks. He certainly never felt as close to his dates as he does to Sherlock, even if their relationship clearly has no sexual component.  He swallows. Not that he’d want that - not with Sherlock. Sherlock is his friend, the best friend he’s ever had, and the intimacy they share, John thinks, has eclipsed the memory of all other relationships. Besides, he reasons as he turns over and feels himself begin to drift off, if all he wants is an orgasm, well, that’s why a man has shower in which to wank. </p>
<p>-</p>
<p>It’s so late that it’s closer to morning than night, and they are in the back of a cab on their way back from Chelmsford. John is studiously keeping his eyes off the meter and hoping they charge the clients enough to make up for Sherlock’s favored method of transportation.</p>
<p>Beside him, Sherlock keeps nodding off. His head hits his chin and he wakes up, coming online all at once, his eyes bright and fully engaged. But within a few minutes he begins to sag again, the post-case exhaustion finally catching up. John managed to bully a scone into him this morning, but he knows Sherlock hasn’t slept for three days.</p>
<p>The third time Sherlock startles himself awake, John reaches over and tugs on his arm. Sherlock is too surprised to fight, and he slumps against John, his right cheek coming to rest on John’s left shoulder. John shifts a bit to relieve the pressure on his bad shoulder and glances down. Sherlock’s eyes are wide, and he’s staring up at John, but he doesn’t move.</p>
<p>“We’ve got another thirty minutes,” John says and he yawns. “Close your eyes. I’ll wake you when we’re back at Baker Street.”</p>
<p>Sherlock’s eyebrows draw down like he plans to argue, so John reaches over with his right hand and begins to stroke his fingers through Sherlock’s fringe. The effect is immediate. Sherlock’s eyes flutter close and his cheek presses more deeply against John’s shoulder. Within a few minutes, his breath becomes even and shallow. He sleeps the rest of the way home. John combs his fingers through Sherlock’s hair the entire time.</p>
<p>-</p>
<p>The next time they order take-out, Sherlock sits close enough that their thighs touch from hip to knee. After they are finished eating, John carries their plates to the kitchen and returns to his seat, settling against Sherlock again. They watch Top Gear for another forty minutes, their thighs pressed tightly together. </p>
<p>Two days later, John is reading on the sofa. His shift at the surgery was draining, and he’s resting his left arm on the armrest, his chin tucked against his fist. Sherlock is perched on the back of his chair, angrily marking up an article about a curare poisoning at a hospital in Lisbon. He stands suddenly, lets out a huff, and hurls the journal in the direction of the fireplace. In three strides, he’s across the room, and he swans onto the end of the couch opposite John. He pulls up his feet, and John watches his long toes inch closer and closer to his own legs. Another frenzy of movement, and Sherlock is suddenly twisting around, squeezing his lanky body into the fetal position. His feet now press against the armrest, his spine is against the back of the couch, and his curly head is in the middle, two feet from John’s lab. Sherlock lies still, breathing noisily and staring intently at the fireplace.</p>
<p>John smiles but doesn’t say anything, wondering if Sherlock thinks he’s being subtle. </p>
<p>Sherlock pushes his feet against the armrest, and his head inches toward John. It’s such a small movement that it’s barely noticeable. John bites his lip.  Sherlock is still for another minute, and then he moves a little bit closer to John.</p>
<p>This time John does laugh and he reaches out to Sherlock, snags him under the armpit, and tugs. Sherlock lets out a sound of protest, but he allows John to pull him until his head is resting on John’s lap.  He grumbles nastily under his breath, but then he rubs his cheek against John’s jeans. John finds a large curl right behind Sherlock’s ear and wraps it around his index finger. He releases this lock and searches for another, twirling Sherlock’s hair lazily. Sherlock says something under his breath that sounds like it could be an insult, but he relaxes into John’s hands. He doesn’t sleep, but he’s still and quiet, and they remain that way for the rest of the evening until John excuses himself to bed.</p>
<p>-</p>
<p>After that, if they don’t have a case, they spend the evening on the couch together. Sometimes John settles down with a book and sometimes he turns on the telly. Sherlock usually starts the evening in the kitchen, mixing noxious-appearing fluids or cutting bits of organic matter so that he can study them under his microscope. After John retires to the couch, however, he’s soon to follow. In no more than fifteen minutes (but never less than ten), he’ll wander into the living room with faux casualness, which John pretends not to notice. </p>
<p>Sherlock reads or studies case files, and sometimes he wanders the halls of his Mind Palace. Sometimes Sherlock watches the telly as well, insulting the plot lines, the dialogue, or the actors until John tells him to shut up. But no matter where he starts the evening, he ends up collapsed on the couch, his head on John’s lap. '</p>
<p>-</p>
<p>A case goes bad. </p>
<p>The victim was a child, and Sherlock always takes these a bit harder. In the six days it takes them to solve the case - to identify the kidnapper, to find the body, to tell the mother that she’ll have justice but never hold her son again - Sherlock sleeps not even a total of five hours.</p>
<p>When it’s over, John falls into bed with a heavy heart. Sleep seems impossible, but he’s only human and when he wakes, fourteen hours have passed. </p>
<p>His circadian rhythm is off kilter and it’s 3 AM. It’s eerily quiet in the flat. He stays in bed for several minutes and lets himself mourn for a life cut short. He wishes the kidnapper had fought back so that he could have transformed his hopeless sorrow into something concrete. Sore fists would feel more useful than the current ache in his chest.</p>
<p>John lets himself have time to wallow, and then he gets up to make himself a cup of tea. Because if he doesn’t make himself get up again, then how can he face the next missing child and the one after that?</p>
<p>The living room is dark as he turns on the kettle, and he thinks he’s alone. Then the scent of cigarette smoke wafts under his nose, and he tenses before moving to the edge of the kitchen. His eyes have to adjust before he can see the dark shape huddled against the window. </p>
<p>Sherlock has dragged a kitchen chair to one of the windows facing Baker Street, and he’s curled into it, forearms on the sill, head resting on his wrists. John can see the knobs of his vertebra through his thin t-shirt. A wisp of smoke curls from his head and drifts away into the night.</p>
<p>John feels a flare of anger, but it flickers out almost as soon as it ignites.  When a case goes wrong or the cruelty of humanity feels utterly pointless, John resorts to anger. He needs to imagine hurting the perpetrators, raining down righteous violence, and he’ll often be short with Sherlock for days. Sherlock, in turn, takes the hurt of the world and directs it inward, harming only himself. The cigarettes are a slow self-harm, an insidious poison. John doesn’t have to like it, but he understands that this is Sherlock’s way.</p>
<p>The kettle whistles. John returns to the stove and prepares a second cup as well as his own. It might be ignored, cold tea poured into the sink tomorrow morning by John himself, but he can’t not offer it. It’s not about the tea. It’s not something corporeal he’s offering. John knows this and he suspects that Sherlock has begun to suspect it. They’re not ready to talk about it yet, however, and tonight is certainly not the right time.</p>
<p>Sherlock doesn’t react to John’s approach nor the cup set at his elbow. He doesn’t look as John pulls up a second chair. It’s a tight fit, but John makes it work. He climbs into the seat and settles next to Sherlock.</p>
<p>The street below is silent. An occasional stranger walks by and John doesn’t know which one is heading home from a club or heading out to a night shift. Sherlock knows. </p>
<p>They don’t speak. Sherlock finishes his cigarette, and he stubs the end on the sill before flicking it to the street below. John doesn’t chastise him, and Sherlock doesn’t light another.  It’s another twenty minutes before Sherlock sighs, deep and heavy. His face is still as marble and there is nothing gentle about his lips or eyes. But his shoulders are a little less tense and John knows he’s touchable now. He reaches out and gently strokes Sherlock’s hair, flicking the fringe from his forehead, and then running his palm over the back of Sherlock’s neck. </p>
<p>Sherlock lets out another long sigh, and John lets his hand drift lower. His touch slips down the bony knobs of Sherlock’s back, and he thinks about what he’ll feed Sherlock the next day. The man’s lost half a stone during this case and it’s not weight he can spare to lose. John’s hand settles between Sherlock’s shoulder blades and he begins to rub the tense muscles. The air from the open window is cold, but Sherlock is warm. </p>
<p>It always surprises John how warm Sherlock is. He has the looks of a Pre-Raphaelite work of art, and the barriers he creates around himself with caustic words and too-knowing eyes might as well be made of stone, but John knows that the man beneath is very real. He bleeds just as easily and his heart, tucked away deep as it is, can be hurt.</p>
<p>John’s hand sweeps up, and he begins to knead the muscles of Sherlock’s neck. He presses hard knowing that Sherlock will shudder away from light touch as though it’s something ghastly. He rubs his thumb across the baby hairs on Sherlock’s nape. </p>
<p>Slowly, as though he doubts its welcome, Sherlock lifts his right hand and lets it drift toward John. He hesitates a second more and then rests his large hand on John’s knee. After another moment, he reaches out with his other hand and grips the teacup. He takes a long sip and then returns to his silent sentry. He does not move his hand from John’s knee.</p>
<p>They remain this way for the rest of the night, until long after the dawn illuminates the street and the city begins to awake.</p>
<p>-</p>
<p>John has forgotten what it’s like not to touch Sherlock.</p>
<p>Sherlock is standing at the kitchen table delivering a blistering monologue on what he perceives is poor training in the blood-spatter experts of the NSY. He’s gesturing a bit too cavalierly with his knife - he had been cutting up a pig spleen earlier, but John doesn’t know why - and it’s easy for John to grab his narrow hips and bodily move him to the side when he needs to get by. Sherlock’s speech falters, just for a second, and then he’s off and running on his next point of contention.</p>
<p>When Sherlock ends up in the Thames again (because of course he does), John manhandles him out of his suit jacket, buttons the other man into his own jacket, and wraps his arms around Sherlock. Sherlock is shivering, his teeth clattering uncontrollably, but he seems to think it’s imperative he walk Lestrade through his entire chain of logic before they leave for home. So even though John would prefer to bundle him into a warm cab, he presses his chest tightly against Sherlock’s back and rubs his arms briskly. He’s not tall enough to see over Sherlock’s shoulder, so he can’t observe Lestrade’s reaction to their positions, but he can see Sally Donovan, who is staring at him incredulously. John mouths “It’s cold!” and he turns to press his forehead against Sherlock’s back.</p>
<p>-</p>
<p>A man pulls a knife on Sherlock and holds it to his pale throat, shouting at the surrounding police to back off. Sherlock rolls his eyes and deduces the man’s erectile dysfunction. Things get impossibly more tense - John wouldn’t have thought that possible - but luckily the criminal becomes so enraged that he lets the arm holding the knife drift a bit, so John tackles him from behind. Lestrade spends ten minutes shouting at Sherlock, jabbing one finger into Sherlock’s chest, while John stands off to the side with his hands on his hips, breathing slow and heavy so that his heart will stop trying to pound out of his chest. </p>
<p>On the cab ride home, Sherlock keeps sneaking peeks at him from the corners of his eyes. He’s waiting for an explosion of curse words and ire. John surprises both of them by grabbing Sherlock’s hand in his own, entwining their fingers, and holding on tight for the remainder of the drive.</p>
<p>After that, they hold hands regularly. Not all the time - they’re not schoolgirls after all, John thinks - but when they are in the cab. When they’re in a dark alley on a stake-out. When they wait side-by-side in the basement of Barts for some lab results, slumping slowly against each other as the quiet of the halls and the exhaustion of the case lulls them into half-dozing. </p>
<p>Sometimes they hold hands in the morning after breakfast, John flipping newspaper pages with his free hand and Sherlock idly scrolling through his phone with his.</p>
<p>-</p>
<p>They take a case in Glasgow. </p>
<p>It’s one of Mycroft’s, so Sherlock tries to affect disdainful ennui, but the case is just too interesting. There’s corporate espionage. John gets to use a pen that contains an honest-to-God secret camera. There’s even a car chase, even if it only lasts four blocks. </p>
<p>They race down a fire escape, the cold air sharp in their lungs as they give chase to their prey, Sherlock racing ahead of the security detail and John catching up, and then they are side by side, Sherlock and John, John and Sherlock. It’s the two of them, just them, against the world.</p>
<p>When the case is over, Sherlock is exuberant. He’s been brilliant, shining brighter than the city lights, and everyone else is the dimmer for not being him, John thinks. Sherlock’s high on his own cleverness, talking a mile a minute to the police chief, and John can’t decide what he wants more: to watch Sherlock be brilliant or watch those around them be blown away by how brilliant his Sherlock is. John has punched three men, two of whom were planning to harm Sherlock, and his knuckles are bruised, but he feels like he could fly.</p>
<p>They’ve missed the last train back to London, but John doesn’t care because Mycroft has been paying their expenses. They book a suite in the poshest hotel in which John’s ever set foot.  They ride the elevator up to the top floor, and Sherlock is still talking and laughing the entire way. John doesn’t feel like Sherlock’s light makes him dimmer - he feels like it feeds him and makes him glow.</p>
<p>When they reach their suite, John toes off his shoes and socks, and he wanders across the plush carpet. He peers out the window, gapes at the telly (which takes up half the wall), and then he checks out the bathroom, which is bigger than the entirety of 221B. Only then does he see that there’s only one bed.</p>
<p>Sherlock is standing at the foot of the bed, arms crossed tightly across his chest, and he winces a little under John’s gaze. </p>
<p>“Sorry,” he says, and John’s heart aches as Sherlock curls into himself. “They must have assumed.  Again. I should have caught it.”  He recovers quickly and turns to smile at John, his expression sculpted into light-hearted amusement. Look at what those idiots did, the expression says. Assuming we’re a couple. How ridiculous.</p>
<p>John shrugs. “It doesn’t matter,” he says.</p>
<p>Then he pauses.</p>
<p>He looks down at his feet and really thinks about it. He thinks about the past several months. His last date was .. eight, no nine months ago. He thinks about touching Sherlock, his soft hair, the smooth skin of his neck, the callouses and tiny healed scars on his hands. He thinks about the way Sherlock looks at him when he doesn’t know that John is watching. He thinks about the flashes of <em> something </em>in Sherlock’s eyes, the expressions he covers up so quickly. He thinks about the hurt he just saw in Sherlock and how he seemed to deflate.</p>
<p>Sherlock is brilliant. He should never look like that, John thinks. He should never curl into himself. He should <em> shine </em>.</p>
<p>John raises his head and meets Sherlock’s eyes. Sherlock is watching him now, his expression wary. His eyes flit around John’s body as though he’s trying to read him, but he clearly doesn’t know what to think.</p>
<p>It doesn’t matter, John thinks. And he realizes it really, <em> really </em> doesn’t. </p>
<p>John grins. Sherlock blinks in response and then cocks his head. He looks so confused that John almost laughs, but he holds it in, knowing Sherlock likely won’t respond well. A lifetime spent with other people - fools, John thinks - has taught him that laughter around him is often laughter <em> at </em>him. John wishes he could yell at each and every one of those people for hurting Sherlock, for ridiculing him, for not seeing what a marvel he is.</p>
<p>John crosses the room in five long strides and watches Sherlock’s face as rests his hands on Sherlock’s narrow hips. Through the fine wool pants, Sherlock’s body is warm, and John splays his fingers wide to absorb the heat. Sherlock continues to blink, and John thinks it’s like the processor that is Sherlock’s brain has hit an error and is glitching. </p>
<p>“Sherlock,” John says, his voice gentle and soft. “You need to tell me if you’re okay with this.” He then presses up onto his toes and brushes his lips against Sherlock’s. He makes sure the touch is light, clearly asking permission, but steady - he doesn’t want Sherlock to think that he isn’t sure of his own intent. </p>
<p>Sherlock’s lips are soft and warm. It’s cold in Scotland, but Sherlock has been applying lip balm regularly.  John knows his own lips are chapped. </p>
<p>When John pulls away, Sherlock’s eyes are closed, and he remains frozen for a few heartbeats before his eyes languidly drift open. His gaze is piercing. His eyes are more grey and green in this lighting. They were more blue this morning. He licks his bottom lip and continues to stare at John, but there’s no expression on his face.</p>
<p>John doesn’t think he’s read this wrong, but he wants to be sure. So he waits for Sherlock.</p>
<p>Slowly, Sherlock’s lips begin to curl, and then he’s smiling at John with the big goofy grin that John loves so much.  He loves that it makes Sherlock look a little silly and much younger. He loves how Sherlock’s eyes crinkle when he smiles like this. He loves how Sherlock draws in his chin and his nose scrunches.</p>
<p>He’s pretty sure he loves everything about Sherlock. </p>
<p>“Okay?” John asks.</p>
<p>Sherlock nods only once, but it’s decisive. “Okay.” He then surges forward, and his lips clash against John’s. </p>
<p>Sherlock kisses like John is his only source of oxygen. It’s sloppy and without art, but perfect. His hands flutter around John, grasping his biceps, running up his flanks, and then gripping his arse tightly. John doesn’t remember ever being touched like this, like he’s someone’s entire world. </p>
<p>Reaching one arm around Sherlock’s narrow waist, John decides to employ his secret weapon, and he thrusts his left hand deep into Sherlock's curls. It works like magic, and the furor drains from Sherlock. He melts against John, widening his stance so that their heights are more even. John grips Sherlock’s hair tighter than he has dared in the past, and Sherlock moans. Grinning against Sherlock’s lips, John uses his grip to angle the other man’s face so that he can lick deeper into his mouth. Sherlock’s hands have settled on John’s shoulders, and John can feel their fine tremor.</p>
<p>Leaving Sherlock's mouth, John kisses his cheekbones, first one and then the other, his jaw, and finally he reaches the long stretch of pale neck. He sucks gently, drawing blood to the surface, and when Sherlock lets out a long keen, he presses the flat of his tongue against the bruise he’s made.</p>
<p>Sherlock is clay in his hands, allowing John to move and direct him. John wants to laugh at this discovery, that Sherlock Holmes who can’t be bothered to make tea without a lengthy argument, is so submissive when it comes to making love.</p>
<p><em> Making love </em> … With that thought, John forces himself to pull back and Sherlock whines at the sudden space between them. His eyes have been shut and he opens them now. They are glassy and unfocused. His lips are swollen and he has love bites on his neck. He looks wrecked <em> . </em></p>
<p>“God,” John says, his voice harsh, and he surges up to press another kiss against Sherlock’s plush lips. Sherlock opens his mouth eagerly and bites at John when he pulls away.</p>
<p>“Sherlock,” John whispers against Sherlock’s wet lips. “I want you so much. I’ve wanted this for a long time. But we don’t have to do anything else tonight. I need to know what you want.” </p>
<p>It’s now Sherlock who pulls back, and his gaze focuses on John. A dark eyebrow raises and his voice, very much in contrast to his sex-mused appearance, is clipped. “John, while I find your caution towards my virtue quite chivalrous, I can assure you it is entirely unnecessary.” He cants his hips forward, and his erection presses against John’s hip, hot and heavy. “While I daresay I am less experienced than you in the matters of sexual conquest, rumors of my virginity are greatly exaggerated.”</p>
<p>John, whose entire awareness has focused on the warm hardness pressed against him, has to swallow before he can speak.  “Are you calling me a slag?”</p>
<p>One corner of Sherlock’s lips twitch. “If it quacks like a duck, and in three continents no less…” </p>
<p>Now that Sherlock’s personality is sneaking through the haze of hormones, John feels himself on more steady ground. “Oh, you cock,” he mutters, reaching both hands into Sherlock’s hair and pulling their mouths together.</p>
<p>“Well, yes, that was rather my point,” Sherlock manages to say while John does his best to kiss the words out of his lips.</p>
<p>That’s that, then, John thinks, and he slips an arm around Sherlock’s low back, using momentum to throw the taller man onto the bed. Sherlock lets out a sound suspiciously like a squawk and then gasps as John crawls on top of him. John perches on Sherlock’s thighs and takes a moment just to stare at the man below. While he hopes there will be many more times like this in the future, this will be their only first time. He wants to savor it.</p>
<p>Like John, Sherlock’s already removed his shoes and socks, and his suit jacket has already been primly hung in the closet. This means John only has to get through the dress shirt, and he puts all of his energy into gently releasing the buttons. He doesn’t dare to look at Sherlock’s face because Sherlock is staring at him with wide, adoring eyes, and if they make eye contact, John suspects he’ll lose fine motor function. </p>
<p>John separates the panels of the shirt with reverence, thinking it’s like Christmas morning as the wide expanse of Sherlock’s pale chest is revealed. He has very little chest hair and his nipples are dusky pink in color. He seems to be made of miles of smooth skin, marred by the occasional scar from his unconventional lifestyle, and John can’t stop staring. A trail of fine dark hair crosses his belly and narrows before disappearing under his wool pants. The lines of his pants are sullied by the bulk of his erection, and John’s mouth is suddenly dry.</p>
<p>“John,” Sherlock says, his voice sharp. John’s eyes fly up to Sherlock’s. Sherlock looks pleased, and he stretches his arms above his head, smiling when John catches his breath and studies the play of his abdominal muscles. </p>
<p>“You’re beautiful,” John says because it’s true, and he watches with fascination as a blush stains Sherlock’s cheeks and spreads down his chest. John reaches out and traces the reddened skin. Sherlock sighs.</p>
<p>“John,” Sherlock says again, his voice now soft. “Please.”</p>
<p>It’s the please that does it. John feels his cock give a twitch. He rolls off of Sherlock, tugging his jumper over his head and then working clumsy fingers over the buttons of his shirt. He falls awkwardly on his back, tugging jeans down and off, and he spares a glance at Sherlock, who is also pulling off his trousers. Their eyes meet, and suddenly John’s overcome with the absurdity of the moment. He and Sherlock Holmes are lying in a giant bed together, in the penthouse suite of a luxury hotel in Scotland, and they are both starkers except for their pants.</p>
<p>It starts with a giggle, but soon dissolves into laughter with a tinge of hysteria, and then Sherlock is laughing too. For several long moments, the room is filled with raucous guffaws. John relaxes and lies side by side with Sherlock as the mirth slowly fades. John wipes the tears from his eyes and grins at Sherlock, delighted to see equal joy on Sherlock’s face.</p>
<p>“I’m glad we’re here,” John says. “Not in Glasgow, I mean, or even in this bed. I just mean I’m glad you and me - we’re finally here. Together.”</p>
<p>Sherlock’s smile turns soft and lovely, a delicate thing. “Yes,” he agrees, his voice a whisper. He rolls toward John, and John turns on his side to meet him. </p>
<p>Their lips meet again. Their kisses are gentler this time around but no less passionate. John slips his lower arm between Sherlock and the bed so that he can pull the taller man closer. His upper arm pets down Sherlock’s side. Sherlock rests both palms against John’s chest. Their lips move slowly, and then the heat begins to grow again. John pulls Sherlock closer and their erections press together, only separated by two thin layers of clothing. Sherlock gasps into John’s mouth, and John thrusts his tongue deeper, fucking Sherlock’s mouth. </p>
<p>When John pulls back to suck air into burning lungs, Sherlock attacks his neck, nibbling and biting and staying just on the right side of pleasure versus pain. </p>
<p>“God, Sherlock, I want…” John manages to choke out, and Sherlock replies, “Yes.”</p>
<p>“Yes? Yes, what? I don’t know…”</p>
<p>“You want to fuck me,” Sherlock’s voice is a growl against John’s Adam’s apple. “Yes, I want you to.” </p>
<p>The words are devastating, and John’s brain is overcome by white noise. Sherlock is moving against him, but John’s thoughts have become soupy slow, and he has to open and close his mouth several times before he can get the words out. “You .. want…”</p>
<p>Sherlock’s mouth is moving lower, laving along his right clavicle. “Very good, John,” he hisses, and he moves to the left clavicle. “You’re almost there.”</p>
<p>John is flummoxed. “We don’t even have...”</p>
<p>“Your duffle bag. Outer right pocket.”</p>
<p>“What?!”</p>
<p>Sherlock raises his head and glares at John, but his wild hair and blushed cheeks blunt its effect. “I bought condoms and lube. I put them in your luggage. Do try and keep up.”</p>
<p>John can only shake his head. “Sherlock, how in the world could you know this would happen?”</p>
<p>Sherlock snorts, and his voice becomes snotty. “Your touches have been escalating - in frequency, duration, and intimacy. I planned for this contingency. Granted, there was a certain allowance for error, and I wasn’t sure we’d get here, but it seemed like a possibility and I thought it best to be prepared.” </p>
<p>John thinks he would be offended by Sherlock’s poisonous tone if it weren’t for the hint of apprehension he can see in those pale eyes. Over the months, John has come to recognize that Sherlock is at his most awful when he’s feeling insecure about something, and for all of Sherlock’s posturing, John can see the doubt beneath.</p>
<p>Sherlock’s nervous.</p>
<p>Huffing with laughter, John strokes Sherlock’s cheek. The taller man’s eyes flutter close, and he leans into the touch. “Of course you did, you mad git,” John says and he gives Sherlock a quick peck on his lips to make sure Sherlock knows he’s not laughing at him.  </p>
<p>John rolls out of the bed and almost trips in his haste to reach his carry-on. The lube and condoms are right where Sherlock said they would be and John wonders how he failed to notice them earlier. He decides to dismiss these thoughts - he should be used to Sherlock being several steps ahead of him by now.</p>
<p>John carefully steps out of his pants, but as he comes back to the bed, he stalls for a moment. Sherlock is recumbent, a combination of wild curls, long limbs, and lean muscle. He’s also divested himself of his pants, and his pale skin is vivid in comparison to the red sheets. His cock is long and darkly flushed. Pale iris watch John from hooded eyelids, and his lips part as John approaches. He slowly licks his lower lip and John feels it like a punch to his solar plexus.</p>
<p>John shakes his head, unable to stop staring. Sherlock raises an eyebrow in inquiry.</p>
<p>“I just-” John struggles to find the words. “I can’t believe how lucky I am.”</p>
<p>Sherlock turns his head away, his brows drawn down. When he turns back to John, his expression is hesitant. “John, you put me on a pedestal. You always have.” He frowns and sits up, resting his folded hands on his lap, and John doesn’t miss that Sherlock is using both words and his body to shield himself. “You see things in me that don’t exist. I’m flattered, of course, but it means you sell yourself short.” He grimaces. “I’m difficult and brash and not a kind person. I am the fortunate one that you see past these flaws and still … desire me.”</p>
<p>John’s heart breaks, just a little, and he drops the supplies onto the bed so that he can crawl to Sherlock. He reaches for Sherlock’s head, cradling his jaw with both hands. “No,” he says. “<em> No. </em> I don’t desire you despite those things, Sherlock.” He ducks his head so that Sherlock is forced to meet his eyes. “Yes, you can be arrogant and sometimes you are a bit of an arse. But you are also amazing and a genius and you care so much - no, don’t argue with me. I may not be a genius, but I can see that, Sherlock.  I am feeling very fortunate that you want <em> me </em>.”</p>
<p>Sherlock stares into John’s eyes but doesn’t say a word, and John forces himself to stay still and look back. It’s uncomfortable to be examined so closely, but he wants, no, he <em> needs </em>Sherlock to see that he means every word. He needs Sherlock to see the truth in his eyes. </p>
<p>Finally Sherlock’s face relaxes and he says softly, “Remarkable.” He leans forward to close the distance between them with a sweet kiss.</p>
<p>John wraps a hand behind Sherlock’s skull and pushes with his other hand against Sherlock’s pectoral, just over his heart, gently settling the other man on his back. He settles into the space between Sherlock’s legs and rolls his hips, swallowing the moan out of Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock’s erection waned during their conversation, but as John licks into Sherlock’s mouth and continues to thrust his hips lazily, he feels it plumping up again. He reaches blindly until he manages to snag the lube and he opens it with one hand. He squeezes a bit too much onto his palm and then he elbows Sherlock’s left thigh.</p>
<p>“This leg up,” he murmurs into Sherlock’s mouth, and Sherlock pulls his leg in, settling his foot flat on the bed. John reaches between Sherlock’s legs with lube-slick fingers and he presses his thumb against Sherlock’s perineum. Sherlock’s head flies back and he lets out a low moan.</p>
<p>John grins against Sherlock’s exposed throat. This is going to be good, he thinks.</p>
<p>Mouthing Sherlock’s throat, John trails his thumb downward, pressing briefly against the tight clench of muscle - and feeling it flutter - and then moves on. Back and forth he moves his thumb as he licks and bites at Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock has begun to pant, his ribs expanding and contracting, and John worries that the other man will hyperventilate.</p>
<p>“Breathe, Sherlock,” he says, and Sherlock immediately takes in a deep breath and holds it. When he lets it out again, John presses his thumb into Sherlock’s body.</p>
<p>Sherlock’s head shoots up and he stares at John with wide eyes. He blinks a half dozen times and then collapses back again. Chuckling, John leans down to lick a nipple and he pulls his thumb back before pushing in again. </p>
<p>John mouths Sherlock’s other nipple and continues to work Sherlock with his thumb. After a few minutes, he exchanges his thumb for his second and third fingers. Sherlock’s hisses against the intrusion, but his breaths quickly become gasping moans, and John begins to scissor his fingers, opening Sherlock with a steady hand even as his heart pounds against his chest like a wild thing trying to escape its cage.  When John adds a third finger, Sherlock’s cries grow loud and throaty and John thinks it’s the hottest thing he’s ever heard.</p>
<p>“Sherlock,” John manages to say. “Are you ready? Please say you’re ready.” </p>
<p>Sherlock does not respond in words, but he throws his legs apart in blatant invitation and John doesn’t need to be told twice. He pulls away from Sherlock, who whimpers when John’s fingers leave his body, and kneels. He tears open a condom packet with his teeth and allows himself two loose strokes of his own cock before rolling it on. He finds the lube and pores more over the latex, slicking himself thoroughly. Sherlock is watching him through dark eyelashes, his knees falling wider apart. John snags a pillow and pushes it under Sherlock’s hips, and Sherlock braces his hands against the headboard without being asked. </p>
<p>Lining himself up, his glans brushing against Sherlock’s opening, John takes a shaky breath and makes himself pause so he can memorize this moment </p>
<p>Sherlock’s grey-green eyes flicker across John’s face, a smile playing at his lips. He is still, as he so rarely is, and he studies John. His lips shape John’s name, but the whisper is too soft for John to hear. John can’t stop himself from reaching out with one hand to run his index finger across Sherlock’s full lower lip. Sherlock’s pink tongue emerges to lick at the pad of his finger, and John groans as he slowly presses his hips forward. </p>
<p>Sherlock’s tongue disappears and his breath catches in his throat. His fingers splay against the headboard.  John moves his hands to Sherlock’s hips and grips them tightly.  He pushes forward slowly, watching himself enter Sherlock’s body, centimeter by centimeter. Sherlock’s thighs are quivering and he’s taking deep breaths, his stomach hollowing, but he’s also pushing back against John, accepting him into his body.</p>
<p>When John’s hips are flush against Sherlock’s thighs, he realizes he’s been holding his breath and he lets it out all at once.  He wants to move, desperately, more than he’s ever wanted anything, but he makes himself stay still as he searches Sherlock’s face for any sign of discomfort.  Sherlock’s chin is tilted into the air and his eyes are closed, but they slowly slide open as John remains frozen. He peers down his nose at John. His eyes are unreadable, glinting in the soft light of the hotel room. </p>
<p>“John,” he says softly, and John’s fingers clench deep into Sherlock’s pale skin. “<em> Move.”  </em></p>
<p>The words have barely left Sherlock’s mouth, and John is already moving. There’s no hesitation in the roll of his hips, and Sherlock moves with him, gasping and bending in an impossible way, seeking John’s lips. They breathe against each other, hot gusts of air mixing rather than lips meeting. Sherlock is hot and tight around John, who finds his hips begin to stutter. His thrusts become harder and shorter, and he pushes up, bracing himself over Sherlock with his right arm, the good arm, and reaching into Sherlock’s curls with his left hand. </p>
<p>Sherlock pants, his eyes wide and wild, his mouth growing slack, and John can see that the constant stream of information has finally been pushed aside, overwhelmed by the interplay of their bodies.</p>
<p>His orgasm begins to build deep in his pelvis, and John closes his eyes tightly, wanting to delay the inevitable. He thinks he could live in this moment forever. He would not eat or sleep or interact with people other than Sherlock. He could be content to stay in this hotel room, in Sherlock’s body, he thinks, the smell of sex permeating his nose and the sounds of Sherlock’s cries ringing in his ears.</p>
<p>His eyes fly open. “Touch yourself,” he tells Sherlock, suddenly desperate. He can feel his orgasm cresting, but he doesn’t want to let go until Sherlock’s had his pleasure, until John’s wrung it out of him.</p>
<p>Sherlock’s arms are still over his head, bracing his body against John’s thrusts, but now he reaches one arm down and takes himself in hand. His arm movements are frantic and his eyes bore into John’s. Short gasps explode from his mouth and John can see that he’s trying to form his name, but the ability to speak has escaped him. His head flies back, hair still caught in John’s fingers, and John imagines it hurts, but Sherlock doesn’t seem to notice. He comes suddenly and violently, semen streaking his abdomen and chest in three pulses. His entire body is barely-contained energy, shaking in bliss, and he clenches tightly around John.</p>
<p>John soon follows, his orgasm strong enough that white sparks explode in the periphery of his vision. John manages another five hard thrusts, and then he’s collapsing onto Sherlock. He breathes wetly onto Sherlock’s right clavicle, licking his lips and tasting the salt from Sherlock’s skin. </p>
<p>For several long moments, they lie still. John wishes he could stay this way the entire night. But he knows he’s crushing Sherlock and he worries Sherlock will be sore - their love making was hardly gentle. He reaches down to grasp the condom, and he eases himself out gently. As he pulls away, their skin sticks together in a mess of semen and sweat.</p>
<p>Sherlock makes a small unhappy sound, which might be discomfort from the detangling of their bodies or might be from John moving away, but his eyes are closed and his face is peaceful. His body is lethargic stillness.  John smiles fondly down at him before he makes himself crawl off the bed.</p>
<p>John cleans himself quickly in the bathroom and then brings a wet town back to Sherlock, who hasn’t moved at all. He gently wipes Sherlock’s chest and stomach and then between his legs, huffing a little with laughter as the other man grunts and turns over, blindly grabs a pillow, and pulls it to his chest.  John tosses the towel in the direction of the bathroom and walks around the hotel room, feeling decedent in his nakedness. There are too many windows, and John spends a moment hoping he won’t be seen. But then again, he thinks to himself feeling chuffed, all anyone would see is a very satisfied man. He rolls his shoulders and enjoys the gentle aches making their presence known in his body. In the following days, this soreness will serve as a reminder of what he and Sherlock just did.</p>
<p>John checks the locks on the door, turns off the lights, and then crawls back into bed. Sherlock promptly lets go of his pillow and throws one long arm around John and wraps a leg around him as well. He rests his head on John’s right shoulder and rubs his nose back and forth through John’s pale chest hair. John grins, delighted to discover that Sherlock Holmes doesn’t just enjoy touch, but also appears to like a cuddle after sex. He wonders briefly how they got from that moment in the basement so many months ago, John’s fingers gently tracing Sherlock’s cheekbones, to this moment in which their naked bodies are pressed so tightly together there’s no room for air between.</p>
<p>“All right?” he asks Sherlock, speaking softly into the dark curls that smell sweet and sour of sex, shampoo, cigarette smoke, and something else underneath, something that’s deeper and darker and just Sherlock.</p>
<p>“Obviously.” Sherlock is a soft bundle of smooth skin, sex, and warmth on his chest, but his voice still manages to retain a hint of its typical hauteur. He then ruins this imperious degree by reaching over to grab John’s left hand and deposit it on his own head.  John smiles and begins to run his fingers through the curls.</p>
<p>“Want to do it again tomorrow before we leave for London?” he asks. “If you’re not too sore, of course,” he hurries to add. It feels cowardly to ask this way - to hint at whether Sherlock wants this to be a one time thing or not. John doesn’t think it will be, but he can’t help the whisper of doubt in his chest.</p>
<p>“Tomorrow morning,” Sherlock mutters, his voice soft with approaching sleep. “And when we get back to Baker Street as well. And the day after and after that.” </p>
<p>“All right,” John says and the doubt in his chest is gone, flushed away by a warm swell of joy that grows and grows, threatening to spill from his lips in incredulous laughter or from his eyes in happy tears. </p>
<p>This is love - he’s sure of it. He doesn’t think he’s ready to say it yet, and he’s not sure if Sherlock is ready to hear it. But he knows they have time, and there’s something special about <em> knowing </em> , about the knowledge he doesn’t dare yet speak <em> .  </em></p>
<p>For now, he’s content to wrap a silky curl around his finger and feel its soft texture against the calluses on his hands. Sherlock’s breathing grows shallow, and John realizes he’s discovered another secret weapon: petting his hair calms Sherlock down, and sex, it would seem, makes him sleep. He wonders what he can discover that will lead to Sherlock eating three square meals per day.</p>
<p>He has time to figure it out, he thinks, playing with another dark curl. He has time to learn this impossible, brilliant man.  With that thought, he closes his eyes and allows himself to drift towards sleep.</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Fin. </em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This is my first time writing an explicit sex scene for an audience. AND it's my first time writing in the present tense. I'm not sure which is making me more nervous.</p>
<p>The title is from "I Will Follow You into the Dark" by Death Cab for Cutie because I'm basic.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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